They looked at each other and nodded significantly.
“See the knees of his pants?” Saltman whispered hoarsely.
“Sure. An' his shoulders. He's been bumpin' an' crawlin' around in a shaft.” As Wild Water talked, his eyes wandered up the snow-covered ravine until they were halted by something that brought a whistle to his lips. “Just cast your eyes up there, Bill. See where I'm pointing? If that ain't a prospect-hole! An' follow it out to both sides—you can see where they tramped in the snow. If it ain't rim-rock on both sides I don't know what rim-rock is. It's a fissure vein, all right.”
“An' look at the size of it!” Saltman cried. “They've got something here, you bet.”
“An' run your eyes down the slide there—see them bluffs standin' out an' slopin' in. The whole slide's in the mouth of the vein as well.”
“And just keep a-lookin' on, out on the ice there, on the trail,” Saltman directed. “Looks like most of Dawson, don't it?”
Wild Water took one glance and saw the trail black with men clear to the far Dawson bank, down which the same unbroken string of men was pouring.
“Well, I'm goin' to get a look-in at that prospect-hole before they get here,” he said, turning and starting swiftly up the ravine.
But the cabin door opened, and the two occupants stepped out.
“Hey!” Smoke called. “Where are you going?”